


Diplomatic Emergency

by bactaqueen



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars: X-wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight AU "Starfighters of Adumar." Wedge leaves Wes and Hobbie to their own devices in Cartann for one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diplomatic Emergency

**Title:**  Diplomatic Emergency  
 **Author:** bactaqueen  
 **Rating:**  PG  
 **Summary:**  Slight AU Starfighters of Adumar. Wedge leaves Hobbie and Wes to their own devices in Cartann for one night.  
 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created by George Lucas. No money is being made, and no infringement is intended. As his own people put it, it's his sandbox, I'm just playing in it.

 

_..."So my question is," Janson said, "why me? Why didn't you bring Tycho up with you? He's your wingman. And he's better with records."_

_"I need someone in charge on the ground when I'm up here. For example, if there's a diplomatic emergency."_  
"I can be in charge on the ground."  
"Oh, that'd be good. You and Hobbie running through the streets of Cartann, leaving destruction in your wake, taking charge when a delicate political disaster strikes. Here's an example. A noble of Cartann comes to you and says, 'I know we have no diplomatic relations yet, but I'm here to request asylum in the New Republic.' What do you say?"  
"Is she good looking?"  
"Thanks for making my point."...

_\-- Starfighters of Adumar, by Aaron Allston_

 

 

**_Diplomatic Emergency_ **

 

In the open main room of the suite that had once belonged to a bachelor half-squad, Wes Janson lounged on one of the padded chairs scattered sparsely around the room, control in hand as he flipped through the available flatscreen programming. It was mid-evening on Adumar, and the air from the half-open balcony door was sweet and warm. The sounds of revelers wafted up from the streets, mingled with the clamor those groundcars made as they rolled by, and all of it was drowned out by the noises of the nearby spaceport whenever a ship lifted off.

Wedge had come by after his meeting with Rogriss and had taken Tycho up to the  _Allegiance_  to search the records. Something had been disturbing the old Rogue, but he hadn’t said what. He’d left only a short message for the other two pilots: “Stay out of trouble.”

Wes glanced across the room at Hobbie in another of the chairs, stocking feet propped up on a low table, flight suit unzipped halfway. Major Derek Klivian seemed to have settled in for the evening; instead of the flatscreen, however, Hobbie was passing the time with a datapad, doubtless reading something incredibly boring--like the specs for the Blades or something on the blastsword.

Wes opened his mouth to make a suggestion.

“No.”

Hobbie, demonstrating Jedi-like precognition abilities, shattered the stillness with one word and startled Janson so badly he nearly fell out of his chair. The blond man looked up from his datapad, in the direction of his wingmate, and all but glared. “Wedge told us to stay here.”

Janson rolled his eyes. “Hobbie, Wedge told us not to get into trouble,” he corrected, swinging his legs down off the arm of the chair, and flipping off the flatscreen. It was a game show of some sort, and one very lucky guess had just won a very homely woman a new wheeled vehicle. She seemed excited about it.

“That means ‘stay put’ in Wedge-speak,” Hobbie argued. “You can’t go to the 'fresher without getting into trouble.”

Janson wrinkled his nose. “I resent that,” he grumbled. “Dour one. Look, all I want to do is go out for a drink.” Wes paused and waited for Hobbie to say something. “Come on, Hobbie. Wedge practically gave us the night off, and there are a dozen tapcafs just around the block.” Hobbie wasn’t buying it, and Wes had known he wouldn’t; his wingman turned his attention back to the datapad. Wes adopted another strategy. “Didn’t you learn anything in the Rebellion?” he demanded. “‘Sleep when you can, eat when you can, drink when you can,’” he recited, and added, “Besides, if we go together, you can keep us both out of trouble.”

Hobbie stared down at the article displayed in glowing white on his datapad. He’d read through the same article three times, and was bored out of his mind already. Wes did have a point, he conceded. And Wedge really hadn’t given them anything to do; essentially, they had the night off. What harm could come of staying within the block?

“ _A_  drink,” he said finally, looking up, his face unreadable. “And you can’t wear that cloak.”

Wes feigned innocence. “Which one?”

 

 

***

 

From their building to the brewtap, Hobbie’s expression remained that of a man long-suffering, and it wasn’t because of the feeling of doom settling in his stomach.

It was because Janson had more than one obnoxious cloak.

While Hobbie knew he was conspicuous in the foreign cut of his clothing--he’d opted for the comfortable pants, tunic, and flight jacket that was nearly as recognizable as an orange flightsuit in any corner of the galaxy--Wes was even more so. He’d taken from the closet the cloak that matched Hobbie’s garb from the  _perator_ ’s dinner. This cloak was only hip-length, with the eye-hurting yellow trim, and Wes had scrounged up small, lightweight flatscreens to display a chorus line of dancing Jansons. With another look at the hateful display, Hobbie sighed. Wes shot him a look.

“Nope,” Janson said. “Nothing romantic about ‘dour one’ at all.”

Hobbie rolled his eyes, and followed Janson into the brewtap. “A drink, Major,” he grumbled, and added under his breath, “Wedge’ll kill us.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Wes refused to allow Hobbie’s perpetual pessimism to dampen his own spirits; the way he saw it, they had the night off in a lovely city where they were already celebrities. And sure, while they were here as ambassadors, what was to stop them from having a few rounds of the local brew, maybe even picking up some female companionship for the evening? Nothing, Janson decided, happy with his set train of thought, and he flashed a winning smile at the beautiful blonde sitting in the booth. The boyfriend glared, and settled a protective arm around his sweetheart. Sure, Wes thought. Like that could stop me.

Hobbie followed, dutifully silent, as Wes led them to the bar at the back of the brewtap. Janson surveyed the crowd, less for danger potential than for target potential, and found several candidates. He ordered two mugs of the house brew and slid onto a bar stool to wait. Hobbie was now little more than a shadow.

Their drinks came, and they sat for a long while, eyeing the room. Janson offered his smile to those who looked his way, and was rewarded more than once with a knowing smirk in return. Once his mark turned back to her friends, giggling. Needless to say, the boyfriends weren’t thrilled.

Janson’s antics weren’t lost on Klivian; Hobbie knew exactly what Wes was doing, and was determined to get his wingman out of the place before he could do any real damage. He was sure a scandal wasn’t what Wedge or the New Republic needed. Might look bad on the holovids.

Which was why Hobbie knew the woman approaching from the darker corner of the brewtap was bad news. There was no denying she was gorgeous, and she had the bearing of a woman who knew it. Hobbie couldn’t bring himself to return her smile. Something wasn’t quite right...

Ah. Her clothes were the wrong cut for the way she held herself. Hobbie had been around royalty and nobility enough--the Rebellion had been crawling with dethroned princes and princesses, lords and ladies--to know that this woman was certainly no middle-class housewife.

Janson turned in time to see the woman slide into the seat next to him. She offered the Taanabian major a devastating smile, tossed her thick dark hair over a shoulder, and turned to order her drink.

Well, Wes was a lost cause.

“Good evening, miss,” Janson started, his voice dropping the necessary levels to set off the red alert alarms in Hobbie’s mind. He’d seen this act too many times to count, and it almost always worked.

In fact, the only time it hadn’t had ended badly... Hobbie caught himself praying that this time, it worked; left bound and gagged in the spaceport here probably wasn’t a good idea.

“Good evening yourself, pilot,” she replied, and turned to face Wes. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Hobbie had heard that line uttered more times than he could number, in languages he didn’t know the name of, and in places he couldn’t even remember. But he’d never heard it spoken like that. Her voice--while undeniably alluring--sent chills down his spine, and not the good kind of chills, either. Hobbie’s back stiffened and he eyed the woman more carefully.

“You have?” Wes asked, managing to move closer to her. “What if I said I’ve been looking for you, too?”

Hobbie stifled a sigh. In more or less twenty years, Janson still hadn’t come up with anything original.

“No, pilot,” she began, and smiled a thank you at the bartender as he left her drink. Without asking, Wes paid the man. “I really have been looking for you. You’re Major Janson and he--” She included Hobbie with a jerk of the chin. “--Is Major Klivivian.”

“It’s Klivian,” Hobbie muttered. Wes struggled not to laugh.

“You’re the New Republic envoys, and companions of General Antilles.”

That she knew who they were was nearly insignificant. Hobbie had doubts that even the most oblivious of Cartann residents didn’t know who they were. But he was also wary. Most of those Cartaan residents probably wanted to kill them for the honor, and while this woman didn’t seem to him the type to do her own killing, you could never be too careful.

“You’ve done your research, my dear, but I’m afraid I haven’t done mine,” Wes said, still smiling, and looking unaware of the woman’s danger potential. Hobbie knew as well as any Rogue that Wes Janson was never unaware.

“I am Ellyssa ke Dissae,” she said, and there was that air of importance. She expected them to know who she was and she expected them to be impressed. “I have been trying very hard to speak with New Republic reprepsentatives. Your Mr. Darpen was never good enough to respond to my requests, and I’m afraid the matter is far too dire for me to wait around much longer.”

If he’d been armed, Hobbie would have hand his hand on his blaster, thumbing off the safety, and doing his best not to be conspicuous about it. Since they’d surrendered their weapons at the door, he settled for setting his drink down on the bar and straightening to get his body in the right position to flee or attack, whichever.

“You do realize that we are not authorized to enter into any diplomatic discussions?” Wes offered. He, too, had set his drink aside, and had a hand very near his blastsword.

“I’m aware that there are no diplomatic relations between Cartann and your New Republic,” she started, ignoring Wes. “Or even between Adumar and the New Republic, but I am here to request asylum with your government.” Ellyssa paused, and looked around, taking in the scene of the brewtap. Until now, it had sounded to Hobbie a great deal like a rehearsed speech; when she opened her mouth again to speak, he recognized improvisation when he heard it. “I had hoped it would be somewhere more private, where we could work out the details of my refuge, but as I said, I have very little time left. I can offer my services as an informant, should you chose to attack Cartaan. My husband is the Minister of Defense,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

The blood drained from Hobbie’s face. Wes’s expression hardened.

“If I may, Lady,” Wes began, “why?”

“Why?” she repeated. “You mean why do I seek asylum?” Both men nodded. “Because I am a fugitive--or, rather, I will be, since I’ve betrayed my husband and my country.”

This is what Wedge had meant by stay out of trouble, Hobbie decided. This is what came of not listening to your commander.

“What did you do?” Wes asked, and Hobbie could have hit him. He was wasting valuable fleeing time, and worse, making sure they got information they didn’t need!

“I sold defense secrets to contacts from Yedagon,” she said dismissively.

Janson started to speak again. Hobbie was dangerously close to dragging his wingman by the scruff of the neck out the door and back to the apartment when a commotion caught the attention of every patron in the brewtap. He turned and found five vibrantly-dressed Cartann Guard at the door, arguing loudly with the brewtap’s minimal security. Hobbie hadn’t thought it was possible, but his spirits sank even further.

“We’re authorized by the office of the perator!” the foremost Guard exclaimed, and it was obvious he was young. “We have buisness with Lady ke Dissae! Stand down!”

Ellyssa sighed. Wes turned back to face her.

“This sort of treason is punishable by death, isn’t it?” Janson asked. The woman nodded. Janson continued, “And anyone you associate with, they’re pretty much dead too, aren’t they?” She nodded again.

“Three, I think we ought to get out of here,” Hobbie muttered, his attention still on the action at the entrance. Wes nodded his agreement, still eyeing Ellyssa.

“You’re not going to help me?” she demanded, angry now. Hobbie finally turned back to her. Her green eyes flashed, and she looked more miffed with them than scared for herself.

“No,” Hobbie said simply.

“We’re not,” Janson finished, and unsheathed the vibrobalde Hobbie had known was hidden on his forearm. The small knife really wouldn’t make much of a difference, of course, if the Guard used their blasters.

“Why not?” she asked, loud enough to draw some attention her way.

As he searched the brewtap for some escape, Hobbie deicided it was time to stop listening to the woman; the minister’s wife was now practically squealing at them, mad in a way that would have been funny if the Guard hadn’t spotted the three of them.

“Three, the 'fresher,” Hobbie said, quietly but forcefully. He wasn’t sure those security personel weren’t aiming at him. Wes turned on his wingmate, his expression incredulous.

“Hobbie, you really should have gone--” Hobbie shook his head at Wes’s obtuseness. He shoved his wingmate none-too-gently in the direction of the men’s refresher stations and ducked. The five-man Guard unit was no longer concerned with the two rent-a-cops stationed at the entrance. Hobbie caught a glimpse of Ellyssa ducking in the opposite direction.

“Inside,” Hobbie said gruffly, pushing Janson into one of the stations and following him in. He slapped the panel to close the door and wished he had a blaster. “There’s a window,” he added, gesturing up at the rectangular glass window over the urinal.

The blastsword would just have to do.

The 'fresher was tiny. Smaller than heads in warships they’d served on. There was very little breathing room, even when Hobbie climbed up onto the toilet to better reach the window. Wes thought to lock the door.

“It won’t keep them for long,” he said with a shrug. “But it’ll keep them.”

Hobbie nodded, and yanked on the window. It didn’t budge. He tried pushing. That didn’t work either.

“Diplomacy,” he grunted. It hadn’t gotten them very far on this mission yet. He turned his face away, and smashed the glass out with his elbow. He could hear the Guard down the corridor, banging open the 'fresher doors. Hobbie cleared the rest of the glass out quickly with the edge of the blastsword, and then sheathed the weapon. He hauled himself out of the window; it was an even tighter fit than the 'fresher had been, and he was glad he’d made use of the excersize room Wedge had set up.

He landed in a crouch two and a half meters later, and was quick to jump from the landing site. He drew his blastsword, and looked up, waiting expectantly for his wingmate to follow him. Wes’s face appeared in the window frame.

“Maybe this is just a big misunderstanding,” he started, and his head bobbed as the Taanabian pilot jumped to lift himself out. Wes got a funny sort of choked expression on his face before he disappeared completely from sight, and Hobbie heard the tell-tale thump of a certain major landing on his rear end on the floor of the 'fresher.

Despite the situation, Hobbie couldn’t help the rare smile.

“I told you not to wear that blasted cloak,” he said mildly.

Janson, now cloak-less, fell out of the window. He picked himself up off the ground and dusted himself off, glaring daggers at his friend.

“No one likes a smug cynic,” he said, sounding miffed.

The sound of the refresher door being kicked in sent them both back into the present, and the first shout of “broken window” sent two heroes of the Rebellion scurrying down the darkened alley.

“I don’t suppose,” Hobbie managed, even as his breath was burning in his lungs, “that you have any of those holdouts you never used to leave home without?”

Even bombing down dark, dirty alleys with a foreign weapon in hand and the security detail of an entire city-state after him, Janson succeeded in sounding piqued. “Of course not,” he huffed.

“We’ll have to steal some then.”

Hobbie saw the red flashes of burning light zip past him and felt the hot sting of energy against the side of his face before he heard the shots fired. The grim Ralltiir pilot swore again, and the smell of ozone was ripe in the air. Hobbie grabbed a handful of Wes’s tunic and dragged him into a doorway. Three more red bolts of energy rushed by.

“It’s a house,” Hobbie explained, and actually considered knocking on the door they were facing.

More blaster bolts sizzled past, and the ever-closer shouts of the security squad encouraged Hobbie to simply try the doorknob.

It was unlocked.

The family was home.

And dinner was on the table.

Wes offered his most charming smile to the seven Adumari gathered around the dinner table, and bowed. The effect was lessened with the absence of the cloak, but was impressive nonetheless. Hobbie suspected Wes practiced in the mirror when he was alone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” Janson began, still smiling, and sounding for the galaxy as if it were perfectly normal to burst in on someone’s dinner. “We’re--”

“Just passing through,” Hobbie broke in, impatient. He’d hoped no one would be home; he’d hoped to simply steal what they needed. He offered his best forced smile in the direction of the man seated at the head of the table. “Security is after us.”

The man’s expression grew wary, and he reached for his weapon. He was stilled by one of the women.

“You’re those New Republic pilots!”

The exclamation came from the woman who was obviously the mother. All three men turned to look at her, and Janson’s grin grew a little more amiable. It was everything Hobbie could do not to sigh.

“Yes, ma’am, we are,” he said. “And Major Klivian is right, we are simply passing through. We apologize for the inconvenience. You see, a minister’s wife has placed us in a very delicate diplomatic situation.” Hobbie nodded.

“So we’re running.”

“We need blasters,” Janson added.

After a long, silent moment, the Adumari man nodded. “You’ll need disguises, too,” he said.

Hobbie let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Wes winked at one of the girls.

 

***

 

Two blasters, two shapeless cloaks, adoring exclamations, sweet rolls, and good-bye kisses later, Hobbie and Wes were making their way back to their quarters. They used a very roundabout route, and Wes was nearly pouting.

“We could have stayed,” he grumbled. Hobbie tightened his grip on his weapon as he heard the sound of a groundcar passing.

“I was hoping no one would be home, anyway,” he said. “We’ve put them in danger, now.”

“I think their glory system covers harboring honorable fugitives,” Janson speculated, and then shrugged. “Us, at least. Besides, that oldest girl was pretty cute.”

“She wasn’t half your age,” Hobbie returned, his tone one of resignation.

“She really didn’t look like she’d mind all that much.” Wes sounded almost chipper, and when Hobbie glanced back, his grin glinted in the oppressive darkness. “And the grandma certainly seemed to have taken to you.”

“You know, only one of us has to make it back to the apartment,” Hobbie threatened.

“What’ll you tell Wedge when he gets back and one of his best and brightest is missing?”

“My finger slipped.”

The mouth of the alley loomed ahead; across the dimly-lit street, the back wall of their building was visible. The two pilots remained in the cover of the shadows as they watched the street between them and their target, as they listened for any sign of the Guard. When the coast seemed clear, Wes nodded to Hobbie, who darted across the street to plaster himself to the wall, and lurk in the shadows. Janson followed two heartbeats later, and very nearly knocked Hobbie over.

“What makes you think they aren’t waiting in our rooms?” Janson asked, keeping his voice low and his weapon ready. He followed his wingmate, edging along in the dark.

“Absolutely nothing.” There was no indication in Hobbie’s tone of a plan. That worried Wes.

“So, if they’re there...” he trailed off. “Do you have a plan?”

It was Hobbie’s turn for indignation at an insult. “Of course I do.”

When Hobbie offered nothing, Wes stopped, and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“We’re going to sneak up to the balcony,” Hobbie started, also still. “We’re going to get one of the long-range comlinks. Then we’re going to call Wedge, and he’s going to fix this mess.”

Wes Janson gaped. “That’s it? That’s your plan?”

“Do you have a better one?” Hobbie demanded.

Janson raised his hands in surrender. “No, but I just want to make sure... I mean, this is sort of a precarious situation,” Wes said. “Wedge’s idea of diplomacy is a warning shot- that takes out shields.”

Hobbie shrugged. “He’s the only diplomat on this mission,” he said.

Janson snorted. “Sure. That means a whole hell of a lot.”

Sighing in exasperation at his friend’s pessimism--and wondering how Wedge and Tycho had managed to put up with it out of him for all these years--Hobbie gestured with his weapon.

“If you can come up with a better idea, Wes, I’m all ears.”

Wes thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Let’s call Wedge,” he said. Hobbie ground his teeth.

“You’re going to be the diversion if we need it,” he growled.

Wes just grinned. “I’m good at that,” he said.

 

***

 

They couldn’t go in through the front door; that would be suicidal. And as much as they disliked Adumar, it was agreed upon that they’d been through too much since Hoth to commit suicide on a planet they didn’t even like. They opted on the more logical route instead, and the most obvious for sneaking in: they skirted the building, and located their pilot’s balcony.

“We could get our X-wings,” Wes suggested, as they lingered in a shadowed doorway five levels beneath the balcony. “Fly up to the  _Allegiance_ , tell Wedge in person.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea! Then we can get shot down on our way up!”

Wes scowled. “No one likes a smart-ass either, Hobbie.”

The taller blond man sighed once again, and tucked the borrowed blaster into his pants. “Just wait here, okay? I’ll climb up the cables and get the comlink. Then I’ll come back down, and we can go find Cheriss and call Wedge. We can get this whole thing straightened out, and avoid any major entanglements.” Hobbie took his jacket off, knowing that the cover would only hinder his progress, and gave it to Janson.

“What if they show up while you’re in there?” Wes asked.

“Did you want to go up there?”

“Hey, not me,” Wes insisted. “I just wondered if you had a strategy.”

Hobbie frowned. “Can I worry about that later?”

“Sure.” Janson grinned. “Good luck, buddy. Unless some gorgeous fem shows up, I’ll be here when you get back.”

As he looked up, Hobbie muttered, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

***

 

He climbed up, hand over hand, until he reached the balcony. He hauled himself over the rail, using Janson’s X-wing as cover, and remained in a crouch with his blaster drawn until he was sure there was no one inside the apartment.

He found one of the long-rage comlinks and headsets Wedge had insisted on, and even managed to locate extra power paks for their blasters. As he was shutting off the lights in the main room, he even dared to hope that no angry Adumari security personnel would burst through the main door, shouting and shooting at him.

Hoping was always a mistake. He wondered when he’d learn.

He was nowhere near as good a shot as Janson was, but Hobbie could hold his own in a firefight, and on many occasions had. He fired quickly at the opening door, dashing for the balcony. More blaster bolts sizzled past him, and once again Hobbie made the mistake of hoping. None of their shots had hit him yet; maybe they wouldn’t.

Sithspit. He’d never hope for anything again.

One bolt caught him in the leg; another hit him in the arm. He ducked to the side of the huge sliding glass doors, and with one booted foot, kicked the door along its tracks to slide shut. Not that it did much good, really. Just as the door bumped into place, Janson’s X-wing sent two dual-bursts of laser fire through the door and into the apartment, obliterating the door, the doorway, the room beyond, and any security officers unlucky enough to be in the way.

Hobbie heaved a sigh. Wedge wasn’t going to like that.

Wes’s head popped up over the edge of the railing near Hobbie.

“Hey there,” Janson said. The short-range comlink in his wingmate’s hand told Hobbie just how Janson’s R2 unit had made the decision to turn the bachelor pad into slag. “Did you get what you went in for?”

“I got it.”

For good measure, Janson’s X-wing fired one more dual burst. Hobbie gave Janson a sharp look.

“You’ll be in trouble for that,” he snapped.

Janson nodded. “Yeah, probably. Hey, are you coming down, or are you going to stand there all day? I hear reinforcements.”

 

***

 

It was slow going from the now-slagged apartment to Cheriss’s home, and Hobbie’s injured leg wasn’t the only reason. They had to take every little back alley and street because the Guard was on high-alert for two unidentified men--men the New Republic pilots just happen to fit the descriptions of. According to Janson’s short-range unit, ke Dissae’s accomplices and contacts were also at large. Lady ke Dissae had been captured. Minister ke Dissae was shocked.

“A simple mission,” Wes said, almost cheerful. “Go up and get a comlink. But you have to make it difficult. You have to get shot.” Wes glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the apartment. “And what happens to the comlink, huh? You drop it. Sounds like mission accomplished to me.”

Hobbie considered just beaning his wingmate with the butt of the borrowed blaster. But at the moment, he as relying on Wes; the injury to his leg was bad, and he was more than limping. So he settled for answering.

“You’re the one who blasted the place,” he said. “Besides--” He winced, when a sudden jab of pain hit his shoulder. “Besides, it was part of my plan. A nice girl like Cheriss wouldn’t turn away an injured man, would she?”

“You’re right,” Janson agreed, after a moment of thought. “Good plan. She’ll probably even tend the wounds herself. Hey, want to switch places?”

“Gladly.”

 

***

 

It was a national emergency by the time they reached Cheriss’s apartment, and Wes couldn’t help but be disappointed with Cartann. After all, two of the people they were searching for were new to the city and still managed to get across town. Wes and Hobbie had already agreed that if it was too late, well, they’d just have to wake the girl up, wouldn’t they?

Cheriss was the only safe contact who wouldn’t chew them out.

“And all you wanted was a drink,” Hobbie mumbled, and his expression tightened at another stab of pain in his shoulder. Wes pressed the buzzer.

“All part of my plan,” he said, and reacted quickly to catch Hobbie as he lost balance. “A drink, a diplomatic emergency. Like I didn’t think Tycho would kill me if Wedge passed on the chance.”

Hobbie started to reply, but Cheriss’s door opened. The dark-haired Ground Champion stood there, as neat and tidy in men’s standard pajamas as she ever was in the native Adumari dress. Wes smiled, and Hobbie offered his own weak smile. The girl looked between the two of them, and stepped back to let them in.

She locked the door before she spoke.

“They are overreacting, of course. You had nothing to do with selling our secrets. Lady ke Dissae has been a traitor for years, and she’s using you.” Cheriss gestured to a chair near a window, and Hobbie limped over.

The girl disappeared into another part of the home, and Wes stood for a few moments longer, just looking around. She came back, med kit in hand, and moved to kneel in the floor before the injured Klivian.

“The Imperials have already offered her asylum, and a condition of the deal was to involve the New Republic pilots.” Cheriss waited expectantly, and Hobbie sighed. He’d lost so many tunics this way.

“So, how do you know all this?” Janson asked.

The girl glanced over at him. “It’s on the news reports, of course.”

“We sort of stopped listening when they gave the description of punishment,” he said, and shrugged. “Thanks, by the way.”

“It’s not a problem.” Cheriss sat back, having finished with Hobbie’s shoulder, and turned to Wes. “If you’d like, the washroom’s just down there.”

Janson nodded, and smiled brightly. “Just like old times, eh, Hobbie?”

Hobbie Klivian closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “Sure, Wes. Just like old times.”

Satisfied, the facetious Taanabian wandered down the hallway. Cheriss gave Hobbie a puzzled look.

“Just like old times?” she questioned.

He glanced at the girl and offered a wry smile. “Cheriss, you have no idea.”

 

***

 

Freshly patched up, and feeling better by the minute, Hobbie took the offered drink from Cheriss and smiled again. Third time in fifteen minutes, he thought. That’s gotta be a record.

“We can’t call Wedge yet,” Wes said suddenly. Hobbie and Cheriss both looked at him, confused. Wes was at the communications bank at the other side of the small main room. The comm was usually hidden by a tapestry, and it was Hobbie’s guess that that was a common practice on Adumar.

“You can’t?” Cheriss asked, and looked to Hobbie for an answer.

It dawned on the Ralltiiran man then. Janson started to cut off the connection, before it could reach the Allegiance and alert Wedge.

“He’s right,” he said to Cheriss. “We can’t call Wedge. In fact, he can’t come back.”

“Hobbie, that’s a little harsh,” Wes started.

“Think about it, Wes. What’s he going to do when he gets back and sees the apartment?”

“What’s wrong with the apartment?”

The two guilty pilots shared a look. It wasn’t a secret; an incinerated apartment was kind of hard to hide. And if they told her, well, maybe she could help. Hobbie nodded once.

“It had an accident,” Wes began. “When we went back to get the commlink to call Wedge, the Guard sort of caught us.”

“That’s how you got shot,” Cheriss said. Hobbie nodded, and she continued, “Since you’re innocent, they have to amend, of course. What did they use?”

“Blasters, mostly,” Hobbie remarked.

The girl’s face became blank. “Blasters shouldn’t have done much damage,” she said.

Wes smiled sheepishly. “We didn’t use blasters,” he said.

She frowned. “I don’t understand. What does your weapon have to do with anything?”

“Wes fired the X-wing’s lasers,” Hobbie said, exasperated. He pushed himself up. “Pretty much obliterated the apartment.”

“Oh.”

Wes started to ask his question--did she have any ideas?--when the door buzzed. Cheriss got up to answer it, leaving the two pilots on the couch, glancing warily between the door and the muted flatscreen that was showing the news.

The majors scrambled up when Cheriss held the door open to allow the four vividly-garbed Cartann Guard into the small home, both of them gauging the distances to their weapons, and Hobbie somewhat relieved to note that there was no camera with the squad.

The largest of the four--and the one wearing the ornate hat, which signaled he must be the leader--didn’t even blink. He just started apologizing.

“Had we known at the start,” he began, and then cut himself off. “Of course, you would not have been pursued. And your rooms... Apologies from the Guard, from the perator, from the dispatch, the cameras...” He paused again, and finally took in his surroundings. His eyes caught on Hobbie’s patches. “Do you need medical assistance?” he asked.

Hobbie glanced down, and the white guaze against his skin wasn’t a big deal. His leg was what really hurt. “Yeah,” he said. “I think that might be a good idea.”

“We have a car outside...?” one of the younger-looking ones ventured. Hobbie nodded, and scooped up his tunic.

The leader looked to Wes. “Is there anything else we can do?”

Hobbie gave Wes a meaningful look.

“Actually,” Wes began, “there is.”

 

***

 

The sun was already making its trip up to light the new day when Wedge and Tycho finally got back. In the refinished main room, Wes lounged on one of the new overstuffed chairs that matched exactly the one that had been in its place twelve hours before. He was watching the morning news on the flatscreen, happy to note that all mention of the New Republic involvement in Lady ke Dissae’s affairs had been omitted.

Hobbie was in the kitchen, not comfortable with having a chef on-call to prepare his meals, cooking something that had begun the morning smelling like breakfast meat. Janson had opened the balcony doors minutes ago; Hobbie definitely wasn’t a cook.

Wes started to call a remark, suggesting Hobbie stick to flying, when the apartment door opened, and Wedge and Tycho straggled in. Tycho looked tired, rumpled, and less than pleased; Wedge looked like his night had been better than anyone else’s. Wes figured he’d gone to see Iella.

Colonel Tycho Celchu started for his bedroom, shedding the top half of his flightsuit as he went. His progress was hindered by a low footstool, which he tripped over.

Now sprawled facedown on the floor, Tycho had time to realize that the fresh smell assailing his nose wasn’t from hiding in the stairwell all night. “Wet paint,” he grumbled, as he rolled over.

Wedge raised an eyebrow at the most refined of his pilots, slightly disappointed. This he would have expected out of Wes. “Wet paint?” Wedge repeated.

Tycho sat up, and stared at Janson. Hobbie emerged in the doorway of the kitchen. “I smell wet paint,” Tycho explained, and picked himself up. He looked around the main room. “This footstool wasn’t here last night,” he added, indicating the short blue ottoman.

Wes and Hobbie glanced at each other. They had agreed not to volunteer any information. If Wedge wanted to know, he’d have to ask. Tycho walked over to the wall, and rubbed a finger against the mortar. When he withdrew his hand, the off-white paint was smudged.

The two majors had a general and colonel on them in an instant.

“Why is the wall freshly painted?” Wedge demanded.

“It needed a new coat,” Hobbie deadpanned. Wes nodded agreement.

“Why?”

Another look passed between the guilty party.

“Did you blow up the apartment?” Tycho asked, his voice quiet and careful. Wes gulped.

“We’re doomed,” Hobbie mumbled.


End file.
